Pitch Black
by Bookworm1756
Summary: Pitch Black is an exceptionally black character. No one really knows the history of him before the arrival of Jack Frost as a Guardian. But he had a mortal life like the rest of the Immortals, and his own experiences as a super-natural being. Oneshot


**Hey, people of The Rise of the Guardians fandom! I not-so-recently posted another story like this one, about Sandman. After re-watching the movie for the millionth time (it never gets old) I decided to do one for Pitch.**

**Disclaimer: I am not an employee of Dreamworks, so this is not mine.**

* * *

Pitch awoke to darkness. This was how it was when all Immortals first wake from their deaths. Darkness.

He clawed blindly at the air, desperate to feel or see anything. His hands passed through nothing until finally his fingers brushed against a wall. He stood and walked to it, placing his palm against the rocky surface. It was loose. Carefully, he scraped off a bit of the wall and rolled it between his forefinger and his thumb. It was dirt.

He looked up to find the moon peacefully hovering in the sky above him. With nothing to lose, Pitch found a handhold and pulled himself up. It was hard and enduring work, but he finally reached the top of the hole that had been dug for him. But there was something in his way. It seemed as if it were wooden bars drawn across the opening. If they meant to keep him in, they weren't much good at their job. Pitch slithered out easily and fell to ground.

Not a cage, he noticed, brushing himself off and getting to his feet once again. A bed frame. A lonely bed standing right on top of an endless black hole.

Pitch glanced up at the moon once more. He remembered what had happened before this. There had been an earthquake in his small home at the outskirts of a small town called Burgess. Both his wife and two children had died. He tried to save them by ushering them into the tornado room under the floor of the youngest child's bed, but instead he had condemned them to their own death. Things fell on the door and trapped them there until they starved to death. He was the only one that was alive when rescue came.

Something changed in the man that day. He grew angrier with himself and more frustrated with others. Rumors spread and he became the outcast of town, as nobody wanted his dark attitude there. Mothers of naughty children even created stories of the Mean Old Him that would come during the night and kidnap bad kids if they didn't do what they were told.

Twenty years after this earth-shaking trauma, the mortal Pitch Black died; killed in his sleep by a debt-owner he was late owing money to. (This man took his profession very seriously.)

And now he was back at that same cabin his family had died in, although it wasn't a cabin anymore. Just a single bed.

Pitch turned, forcing his gaze to fall upon anything but it. He now had two options; sit down and cry, or walk away. As hard as it was, he did the second one, headed for where he knew town would be.

"Why am I not dead?" he contemplated out loud, holding his arm out in front of him and flexing his fingers admirably. "I remember being killed for some reason, although I was asleep at the time. It's an odd thing to remember your death, as you are supposedly dead afterwards."

Pitch reached the village. Not many people were about, as it was near midnight and cold that day was. A few Christmas carollers sang by a large bonfire in the center of a circle of houses and shops, bundled up tightly in winter coats and hats. They took no care for when Pitch walked by.

"Ugh," he said to himself, rolling his eyes. "Carollers. They don't know when to shut up, do they? It's the middle of the stinking night, those blasted idiots. They don't even sing good! Hey, you!" he shouted to the carollers. "Why don't you go home for the night, your music stinks!"

They took no attention to him. Pitch stared at them for a while, arms folded and tapping his foot impatiently, until he was sort of forced to walk up to them because their song just got so irritating.

"What's your problem?" he demanded as he turned to the nearest caroller. "I'm trying to concentrate on something important and you, my friend, are not helping! Go to sleep!" Pitch waited for the man to reply, but he kept his back to him. Sighing loudly, Pitch reached out and grabbed the man's coat to whirl him around and speak to him face-to-face, but he missed.

"What on earth?" he asked out loud, staring at his hand. It felt tingly, as if it had fallen asleep and there were pins-and-needles all over. _How do you miss that kind of thing? _He tried again, and this time it was certain, his hand passed right through the man.

Pitch gasped, scrambling back and tripping over his own feet in his haste, falling. He clutched his tingly hand in fear, wondering what the heck had just happened. "What did you do!?" he demanded, but no one paid him attention. The carollers finished their song and all cheered. They began to go their own ways, heading for their homes to a cup of steaming hot chocolate and some sleep. A few stepped where Pitch lay, but their feet passed right through him.

"They can't see me," he realized. "They can't see me or hear me or even feel me." He looked up at the moon with a face of anger. "What did you do!?" he demanded, instantly knowing that it was it's fault. "Why did you do this!? Why am I a ghost?! Tell me!"

Nothing happened. Pitch got to his feet and kicked a nearby rock, it sailing across the clearing and landing softly on a patch of grass. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and was about to walk away, but something stopped him.

The dreams.

Now that most of the villagers were going to bed, some of them were starting their first dreams. Tendrils of golden sand came down from the heavens, sneaking in through open windows or going right through walls. Pitch stared in awe for a moment, then rushed over to one home to see a small child sleeping in her bedroom, a golden cat running around in circles above her head. The girl smiled and laughed and in her sleep, and it made Pitch want to go in there and snatch the dream right out from her room.

He had never seen this happen before, although he did know the tales told by the children. Every night when you went to bed, a man called the Sandman would sneak into your bedroom and give you good dreams. Of course, the adults told these tales to keep the imaginations of the children going, not because they themselves actually believed that nonsense.

Pitch reached out and experimentally touched one of the streams of golden sand. He grabbed some of it and held it in his hand, staring at it quizzically. Suddenly it began to turn darker in his fingers. Pitch stared as the gold turned yellow to gray to black.

Wondering what had happened, he dropped this sand and touched the stream of dreams again, holding his hand where it was. As the grains touched his fingers they turned dark, swarming the dream of the little girl and turning it bleak. She shivered and whimpered in her sleep, holding the bed sheets closer to her. The cat changed into a vicious tiger, snarling with sharp fangs and ready to pounce.

Pitch laughed. He actually laughed. He ran around the village, touching as many streams of gold he could and turning them into nightmares. For the first time since his family had died and he had died, Pitch was having some fun.

When it was over, Pitch fell against the wall of a cottage and took a break. He noticed how he was sort of sinking into the shadows, and how they were sort of being drawn to him. Curious, he knelt back and stuck his hand in. It disappeared. Smirking, he jumped right in without wondering what could happen.

He reappeared outside the village, emerging from the shadow of a dying tree. The wisps of gold sand were all gone, replaced with black. Of course, there was still gold in the sky, racing toward other villages or towards this one to help, but Pitch decided to let it go. He had his fun, and now that village was pitch black.

Pitch Black.

He knew who he was, and why the moon had brought him there. He was some sort of dark spirit who lurked in the shadows while nobody saw him. The children said he hid under their beds and grabbed them when they were bad? Fine. He'd do that.

And make the most of it as well.

**-o-O-o-**

Near the end of the dark ages, Pitch was having a little fun with some naughty children.

You see, they had disobeyed their parents by entering the Forbidden Forest. They would have gotten out just fine had Pitch decided not to get involved. But now they were lost, and it was the middle of the night, and it was cold, and they were all scared.

"I knew this was a bad idea," said one of the girls to the eldest boy. "We shouldn't have come here! I blame you!"

"Relax," said the boy calmly, though Pitch could sense his fear as well. "We'll be fine."

Pitch grinned and spoke out. "I wouldn't be so sure about that if I were you."

The children stiffened, and a few of the girls screamed. The boy grabbed a nearby stick and held it tightly in his hands. "Who are you?" he yelled fearlessly, pointing it at the forest around them. "Reveal yourself!"

Pitch laughed slowly and menacingly, using the shadows to walk around the group so that his voice seemed to come from every direction. "Oh, you naughty, naughty children," he said. "You should have obeyed your parents and stayed home."

He had been deciding to put a few scary faces on the tree trunks and then let them go, but he decided to take the opportunity to reveal himself. "Remember this day, children," he said, walking out of the shadows. "The one where you met the _Boogeyman."_

The older ones screamed, but the youngest child stuck her hand out and pointed at him. "Booger-man!" she shouted, then started laughing.

This spoiled the effect completely. "What?" Pitch demanded. "What did you just say?"

"Booger-man!" the child repeated, laughing so hard she could barely get the words out. "Booger-man, booger-man!"

Then, miraculously, one of the other girls began to laugh as well. Hesitantly at first, but then she began to giggle for real. And then the eldest boy lowered his stick and laughed with them. Soon the group of children were on their knees laughing about the day they met the booger-man.

"No!" Pitch yelled. "Quake before my wake!"

That just got them laughing even harder. "Quake before wake!" one of them yelled. "It rhymes! Oh, it hurts! It hurts!"

Finally, the oldest boy got to his feet, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. "C'mon, guys, we've got to get home," he said. Still shaking slightly from their laughter, the boys and girls began to make their way through the forest on what they hoped was the way back to their village.

"NO!" Pitch roared. "You will fear me!" He stepped into a nearby shadow and allowed it to teleport him in front of the children. But they took no notice of him and kept walking.

"What are you doing—?" Pitch managed before the kids walked right through him. Pins-and-needles all over, but Pitch took no care. His fists clenched involuntarily as he watched the children leave, but allowed them to do so. He knew what was up.

Jumping into another shadow, he reached the tops of the trees to find the Sandman standing there with his arms crossed. Many children now feared Pitch and were able to see him because of this, but now the tides were beginning to turn and more were heading for Sandman's embrace instead. They had been enemies ever since they decided to meet face-to-face, and the little man did not look happy.

"Why, hello, Guardian," said Pitch calmly. "How lovely to see you."

Sandman remained expressionless at the flattering title. For some reason the Man in the Moon decided to make Sandy a Guardian, which was his way of saying This-Guy-Is-More-Important-Than-You-So-Nya-Nya-Nya -Nya-Nya. Sandman was the only one of his kind.

"I hear kids nowadays are having more bad experiences than ever before," commented Pitch casually. "You know why?"

Sandman didn't move, but a picture of him strangling Pitch appeared above his head in golden sand.

Pitch laughed. "Oh, how delightful of you, Sandy. You know, you always make me laugh." Then he turned serious, leaning in close to the little man's face.

"I know what you did to them down there, making them laugh with your _joy." _Pitch said the word disdainfully. "Don't do it again. You have your job and I have mine." With that he stepped into the shadows and disappeared.

**-o-O-o-**

Rumours were going around that a new Immortal was born. This didn't happen often, and so it was a great honour to meet one of these people while they were still… new.

That was what Pitch was doing that certain day. Visiting a fellow Immortal. For some reason he lived in a small shack in the middle of nowhere at the North Pole. Pitch grinned, wondering what flattering introduction he'd start with. He knocked on the door. The sounds of music and soft whirring of machines could be heard through the walls.

"Coming!" a Russian voice called out, and the door opened to reveal a very large man with a very impressive beard. A heat wave came out of the opening, and it was obvious it wasn't as freezing cold in there as it was outside.

"Hello," said Pitch with an uncanny smile. "I hear you're the newest Immortal. I decided to stop by to see who I'll be arguing with next."

The man frowned at him. "Who are you?" he demanded.

"I'm a Spirit of Darkness," Pitch told him. "You can sort of tell by the black robes and gray skin."

The Russian grunted. "It was nice of you to stop by, Mr. Dark," he said, "but I'm busy."

"Oh, you can never be busy for a guest," said Pitch, pushing the door so that the opening was larger and welcomed himself inside. He looked around. "You're a toy maker," he noticed.

"Yes," said the man. "Now please, go away."

"Nonsense, I think I'll stay a bit," said Pitch. "I don't even know your name."

"Nicholas," said the man. "My name is… was… Nicholas."

"And what did you do as a mortal, Nick?" Pitch continued, running his hand over a worktable full of glass toys.

"I sent some girls who couldn't afford a marriage some money so that they could," said Nicholas, rubbing the back of his meaty neck sheepishly. "Became a saint if you can believe it."

"Oh, that's pretty impressive all right," decided Pitch. "And your Immortal name?"

"My… Immortal name?"

"Of course. You have one, don't you?"

"Uh, I didn't know we needed one," said Nicholas apologetically. "What's yours?"

"Pitch. Pitch Black," Pitch told him. There was a brief silence, and he broke it by continuing. "Well, it was nice meeting you, Nick. Hopefully you'll think of something." Pitch patted him on the arm and stepped outside, closing the door behind him. He took a few steps and looked back at the cabin, shivering. Best leave before he got a cold.

**-o-O-o-**

Pitch was playing one of his favourite games—Make the Mare. It had been originally called Make the Nightmare, but the name had grown too long to be used. Besides, Make the Mare sounded cooler. He sat in the boy's bedroom, looking around at the things he could use for inspiration. He spotted a baseball bat thrown in the corner, and that gave him an idea.

He spoke to the swirling black sand, telling it that his favourite baseball team was chasing the boy along with horrible monsters, being told he was worthless. The boy moaned in his sleep, and Pitch grinned.

Suddenly, the dream was interrupted when something flew into it. A large creature with wings. Pitch hid himself in the shadows, watching it. He saw as the thing reached underneath the pillow and pull out a tooth. She left behind a small coin. Noticing the nightmare, she waved her hand through it and allowed it to disintegrate. Better no dream than a bad one. Then she flew out the window. Curious, Pitch followed her.

She flew over the rooftops of the city, heading somewhere. She landed on the rooftop of a particularly large building where two figures waited for her.

"Why did you need to see me, Santa?" she asked, pocketing the tooth. "And Sandy. I see you showed up as well. Why do the two all-powerful Guardians need to see me?"

Santa Clause began by saying something, but considered the angry tone of the fairy and decided to try a different approach. "I have a question for you, Tooth Fairy," he said. "Why do you steal the teeth of children every night?"

"I don't," she intoned. "I used to visit every child every night before I realized I couldn't do it. Then I decided to only do the children with lost teeth."

"And why do you take the teeth?"

"Because, _Santy Clause, _they hold the memories most precious to childhood," said Tooth. "I keep them safe."

"That's a lot of work for one fairy, isn't it?" continued Santa, hands on hips, and Sandy nodded.

"It is," Tooth replied, her tone indicating that the discussion was about to be over. "But I make it work."

North hesitated, and then gestured for Tooth to come closer. "Let me take you for a walk and tell you a little something about being a Guardian," he said. "Sandy, take five."

The Sandman nodded and flew up into the sky, grabbing swirling golden dust from the air as he went. Pitch gritted his teeth, sinking back into the shadows.

So another Guardian was chosen, eh? Fine. And then there were three.

**-o-O-o-**

Make that four.

The bunny. How on earth did they let the bunny on their team of do-goods? All he did was hide eggs; what's the big idea?

The group was growing powerful. Who knew whom they could invite next? Something had to be done about this goodness everywhere. Pitch's magic was fading and now almost nobody could ever see him.

He curled his fingers around the black stream of sand coming in through the child's window, watching it morph into a horrible nightmare of pain and screams.

Yes, something had to be done.

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**Hope it didn't suck much.**

**Review!**


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